


Wings of Baker Street

by savingprivatesimmons (black_twosugars)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU: Wing!Fic, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_twosugars/pseuds/savingprivatesimmons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock Holmes notices that something is happening between John Watson and Gregory Lestrade he is determined to find out. The thing is, when Sherlock Holmes wants to know something, he really will go to any extent to observe, deduce and eliminate the impossible. AU: wing!fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings of Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything (apart from a few original characters and what not). But all Sherlock Holmes stuff belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC.  
> Pairings: None what-so-ever. No relationships apart from actual married couples and the occasional joke.

Ever since the 'Study in Pink' case Lestrade had been asking for Sherlock's help even more, even if everybody else didn't think they needed the deduction skills he possessed. This meant that John had been seeing more of Scotland Yard and, more importantly, Gregory Lestrade. Sherlock never understood why John liked him so much, maybe it was because they liked the same coffee or maybe they just had a lot in common. Little did Sherlock know Gregory and John had much more in common than he thought. They were, in fact, related in some way. John's great grandparents had two children; Julia Watson and David Watson. David is John's own Grandfather whilst Julia is Greg's Grandmother. John was never any good at understanding family trees and he was glad to have someone other than Harry to be able to call family. Greg was equally as happy to have family as he didn't have any siblings, unlike John. Right now John was on his way to Costa coffee shop to have a chat without it being about a crime or corpse, or Sherlock for that matter.

The soft scent of coffee as John walked in told him that for some reason, today was going to be a good day. Greg was sat at a small round table at the window with two cappuccinos sat in front of him. Once John had taken his coat off Greg handed John his drink and smiled at him. John returned the grin and started talking to him, "hey Greg, how've you been keeping?"  
"I've been alright, work's been slow recently. Some minor cases and what-not but apart from that it's been pretty normal." The detective inspector took another sip of his coffee. "What about you?"  
"Not much, Sherlock's been pretty bored lately," Greg gave him a look as if to say 'what did he do this time?' John said simply, "he speared the cupboard with his harpoon."  
"He  _has_  a harpoon?" Greg knew it was hard to get hold of one in Britain.  
"Not any more he doesn't. I took it." John sounded relieved saying that, it had been quite an effort to part Sherlock from his harpoon. He had hidden it under a loose floorboard in his bedroom. Sherlock would probably find it sometime though, he usually did. A bleeping sound came from Lestrade's coat pocket. He fished it out, looked at the message and rolled his eyes.  
"What's wrong?" John queried. This usually meant either one of two things. The Yard had a new (and important) case for him, or Sherlock was annoying him (which also happened a lot).  
"Donovan." He looked frustrated. His phone gave another bleep and Lestrade's annoyed face turned into a furious one. "Ha ha ha," he laughed dryly. "She says 'there's been a murder. Jean Wilkes, 32, very brutal. 41 Frampton Street. Could be 'Moriarty'.'" John looked offended and slightly insulted. She didn't believe in Moriarty. John wished that he could personally punch every person that believed Sherlock to be a psychopath serial killer right in the face, they all believed that Moriarty was a fake and that Richard Brook was innocent. That meant that they all believed John to be an easily led dreamer that followed Sherlock around all the time like a dog. John hated that.  
"Do you want to take this one? It sounds quite important..." John didn't mind when Greg had a case, he usually ended up calling on Sherlock anyway. That meant that John would get a chance to chat to his cousin again.  
"Yeah, Donovan seemed pretty urgent." Greg sighed, he hoped he would need Sherlock's assistance (even if he made everyone seem like idiots), it meant a chance to see John again and that was always an upside. "Sorry John. I'll probably end up calling you anyway," both Lestrade and John chuckled as they binned their empty coffee cups, pulled their jackets on and left through the door.  
"You still okay for tonight?" Greg called out as John failed to hail a taxi.  
"Yeah, your house this time, Sherlock nearly saw you last time." John was always cautious when it came to Sherlock. Greg nodded and strode off in the direction of Frampton Street, which wasn't too far from here. John was left outside Costa, finally hailing a taxi on the third try. He climbed into the black cab, told the driver "221b Baker Street" and immersed himself in his thoughts. If Sherlock  _were_  to find out about their secret John wondered what Sherlock would do. Conduct experiments? Ask a million and one questions? Think that they were freaks and leave 221b? No, John mustn't think like that. Sherlock would never leave Baker Street, even if he did find out the baffling fact that John Watson and Gregory Lestrade had massive, feathery wings on their backs. Sherlock would want to know how; he wouldn't pass at an opportunity to examine the impossible. That one was easy to explain. John and Greg were, after all, relatives. Their family tree proved it. So, the most logical explanation would be that all of the males in the Watson-Lestrade family tree had wings. John had them, so did his father, grandfather and his great grandfather. Greg's father, however, did not have them as his mother was a Watson descendant, not his father. His grandfather didn't have wings either, for the same reason as his father. Greg shared the same great grandfather as John so this also proved John's theory about the males in the family tree. They all had wings.  
"Is this your stop?" The cabbie had a Scottish twang to his voice. John got out, paid the driver and made his way back up the stairs of 221.

**0o0o0**

"About time you got back," was the welcome John got as he crept into the seemingly empty flat. Sherlock was laying in his chair with his legs dangling over one of its arms. "Lestrade phoned" John couldn't help but smirk at this. He knew about the case before Sherlock had received that call, he knew that in the morning they would be straight off to 41 Frampton Street to investigate the curious murder of Jean Wilkes. It was almost certain that Sherlock would bother him about where he had been, who he had been with and why he was so late.  
"So, where have you been?" It wasn't really a question, more of a demand. Sherlock loved to know absolutely everything about everyone. John needed to think of a quick response to shut Sherlock up, he wanted to get him asleep so he could sneak out again to meet Greg.  
"Went for a coffee, nothing particularly special. What have you done?" John hoped that Sherlock hadn't blown up anything in his absence. It happened far too often and Mrs Hudson was never happy when she found a cupboard door with a harpoon through or a toaster with severed fingers burnt into it or bullet holes in her walls.  
"I've been waiting for a case. I watched some television; some people can be remarkably stupid. Did you know that-" Sherlock continued to rant about the stupidity of game show contestants and how the host of 'Deal or No Deal' was obviously having an affair with opener of box number 16. He ranted for a good two and a half hours before John finally got fed up.  
"Sherlock, its half past ten. I really think we need to get some sleep." John really didn't need Sherlock having a full blown debate with himself about the stupidity of people on the TV or about the idiocy of Anderson or about his latest experiment and the full analysis. He just needed to get a few hours sleep before he was due to meet up with Greg.  
"Alright, you're tired. I'll do what's probably best for both of us." John looked at Sherlock suspiciously.  
"And what might that be?" John tried his best not to sound sarcastic. But when was it normal for Sherlock to do something that was good for his flat mate or for his health even?  
"I'll get some rest too. We've got an interesting case, don't want to be tired do we? Plus, I haven't had a decent night's sleep since Tuesday." Sherlock sounded excited. Another intriguing murder, Sherlock loved those. His favourite crime was serial killing, as he had said before, there's always something to look forward to. Sherlock slid off of the chair, picked up his notebook, a pen and his phone. John couldn't care less about what he was going to do, he just needed some sleep then he could carefully sneak out the flat at half past twelve _without_  feeling as though he could nap on any given surface. He didn't need a repeat of the time when he fell asleep in the clinic because he stayed up all night looking through hundreds of books for that damn cipher.

**0o0o0**

A quiet buzzing noise coming from under John's pillow told him that it was quarter past twelve. He slid out of bed and quickly (but extremely quietly) got dressed and picked some shoes up. He'd put those on when he got to the roof as he learned from earlier, his shoes make an echoing tapping sound on the stairs and Sherlock was a very light sleeper. John took his keys which had a spare key for the roof that he had from when Mrs Hudson visited her sister for the weekend, she had let him keep it just in case he needed it. He grabbed his wallet just in case and crept up the small spiral staircase, avoiding the creaky steps with quick feet and finally coming to a halt at the top of the stairs. He unlocked the door and took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh air.

There were still some grey clouds looming in the distance, hopefully it wouldn't rain again, it would be quite hard to explain to Sherlock why he was dripping water all over the flat and he wasn't going to accept the 'I left my bedroom window open' excuse again. An orange glow emanated from the street below, very few cars drove by and the usually busy pavements were practically empty apart from the occasional walker who would walk past with their head down. John took careful steps towards the opposite of the building where the street lights were dim and no one walked past below, for alleyways at night were normally avoided. He sat himself down so his legs dangled over the edge and pulled his shoes on. He then shrugged his jumper off to reveal a shirt he had previously cut two large slits down the back. From those slits two large sandy coloured wings unfurled and stretched to their full extent before poising ready for flight.

Ten minutes later, John landed on the roof of Greg's house and made his way over to the two benches and the coffee table that had been left on the roof. Greg was already sat on one of the benches with his huge silver wings leaning over the back of the bench. When he saw John; his face broke into a big smile. There really wasn't anything better than sneaking out with a friend for some fresh air and maybe a bite to eat.  
"Race you to the car-park on Adilade Road," John declared with a smirk.  
"Okay, last one there buys food"

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, if I'm honest, that started out better than I expected but I think I rushed the ending a bit too much. I'll only continue if people actually want me to, but yeah. My first actual fic! Don't shoot me!


End file.
